The Tragic Tale of the Torture of Sarah Walker
by Zerectica
Summary: When a mission goes awry, Sarah is captured and tortured. How will she handle it? Will she even survive it?
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Warning. This story contains depictions of torture. Nothing too graphic, but enough to warrant a T rating. If you haven't backed out of this story yet and plan to read it, enjoy.**_

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I wake up and I realize that I don't know where I am. I open my eyes and I can't see anything. I don't know if it is because the room is completely dark or if it's because I'm blindfolded. I can't tell. I must have been drugged.

I think that I'm sitting in a chair and that my arms are bound behind my back and that my ankles are tied to the legs of the chair. I also think that there is a gag in my mouth. But I'm not sure of any of those things.

There is no question now. I can't think of any other plausible explanation. I have to be experiencing the after effects of drugs. What it is, I have no idea. I've never felt like this before.

While I sit blindly in the dark, I try to remember how I got here. Wherever here is.

_Chuck and Sarah, along with Ellie and Devon were all enjoying a nice dinner in a quiet little restaurant. The two couples couldn't be any more different. Ellie and Devon were sitting so close to one another that they were practically on top of each other. Smiles and love for the other radiated between them. Chuck and Sarah kept as much distance between them as possible without it seeming suspicious. The only thing that radiated between them was an insurmountable amount of tension._

_Chuck, unable to bear eye contact with the beautiful spy he loved, but couldn't have, for very long without the pain in his chest becoming too great, was easily distracted by everything around him that wasn't Sarah. _

_One of these distractions came from a man who walked into the restaurant with a gorgeous girl on his arm. As they passed by the table at which the group was sitting, a familiar sensation hit him and he flashed. _

_Ellie and Devon only had eyes for each other and didn't notice Chuck's strange reaction. But Sarah had noticed the signs of a flash and leaned toward Chuck to allow him to whisper into her ear. To anyone else, the scene would look like a couple whispering sweet nothings into one another's ears, but what Chuck whispered had nothing to do with romance._

"_What is it with guys and hiding intel in their belt buckles?"_

_After Chuck filled her in on the information the flash contained, which wasn't much, Sarah excused herself and headed for the bathrooms._

_Locking herself in the stall furthest from the door, Sarah pulled out her phone and quickly dialed the number that would eventually link her to Beckman._

_After giving Beckman the information they had, which included nothing about the man carrying the intel, other than his love for beautiful women, Sarah was instructed to get alone with this man, take possession of the intel contained in his belt buckle and immediately report back to Castle._

_With the reluctant help of Chuck, Ellie and Devon had left the other couple alone. Once they were out of sight, Chuck, even more reluctantly than before, left the table until only Sarah remained._

_Now alone, Sarah immediately went to work. It didn't take long before she had the man's undivided attention. The girl who was hanging all over him was all but forgotten. Before she knew it, they were up in his hotel room. That's when the real mission began._

_Things were going great. She had him completely under her spell. Everything was going according to plan, until she began working to remove his belt._

_She managed to get it off, but he quickly snatched it from her. Before she could react, he had forcibly slung the buckle into her temple. The force knocked her over and when she fell, her head connected with the hard metal of the footrest at the bottom of the bed._

Now I remember. For the first time in a very long time, I was unsuccessful in my mission. I had underestimated my target. But how could I have known what he was capable of? I had absolutely no information on this man. Not even a name.

The darkness and silence of my surroundings engulfed me as I sat alone waiting for whatever was going to happen to me here. Waiting for the unknown was like a form of torture. The longer you were forced to wait, the more time your imagination had to paint the most horrific visions of what would be coming to you.

I have no idea how long I wait. I'm completely unaware of time. It's become like a foreign concept to me. One second can feel like an hour. A minute can go on for an eternity.

Finally, I hear the creak of a thick metal door. Someone has come for me, but it's too late. My mind has already started attacking itself. It's full of crazy ideas. I've imagined a million terrible scenarios. Along with the still lasting after effects of my drugging and my bound and gagged state, I'm defenseless to fight back.

I don't have to wait long to get an idea of what will happen to me in this room. My gag is pulled from my mouth. It now hangs around my neck. The bright florescent lights are painfully blinding as the blindfold is swiftly removed from my eyes.

Before my eyes adjust to the brightness, a large knife cuts into the right side of my face. After the shock and the sharp sensation of pain, I feel the warmth and stickiness of my blood ooze out onto my cheek. It runs down my neck and sinks into the cloth that made up my gag.

For the first time, my eyes fall upon my attacker. I don't know his name, but I recognize his face. His slick black hair and his olive-green eyes. His eyes, while familiar are quite different as well. Gone is the lightness they once held. The only thing reflected in those eyes now is pure evil.

His tall, muscular frame is familiar to me too. I estimate his height to be around 6' 4" or 6' 5" and his weight must be around 200 pounds. I know that he is strong, much stronger than I am. This is the man who slung a belt buckle into my face earlier tonight. At least I think it was tonight. I have no way of knowing how long the drugs I was given knocked me out.

Finally he opens his mouth to speak to me as he runs his finger across the back of the knife which is stained with my blood. "That was to show you how serious I am. I will not tolerate you playing games with me."

"Now, let me tell you why you're here. Oh wait. How rude of me, I never introduced myself. My name is Ralph Marks. I'm one of the highest ranking members of the Ring." He sees the brief flash of recognition in my eyes. "Ah, so I was right. You have heard of us. Well then, I probably don't need to tell you what I want, because you already know don't you?"

He stands there looking at me with menacing eyes, as though he wants me to supply the answer as to the reason I've been taken. I know what he wants. He wants the new version of the Intersect. He wants Chuck. My Chuck. I won't give him the satisfaction of an answer. He will have to say it.

"So, I see that you wish to be stubborn. That's alright. I'll say it, but you will pay for your silence." He crouches to the floor. I wish I could kick him, but I'm bound to this chair. The small unstained by my blood portion of the knife, gleams under the bright lights, as it slices into my leg. "I want the human Intersect and I know that you know who it is."

The long gash runs from the outside of my left leg just below my knee, all the way around the front and down to my ankle on the inside. My whole leg burns from the pain. But I keep my face controlled. I will not let this despicable man see my pain.

"You may ask why I cut your leg simply because you did not acknowledge that you knew what I was looking for? Well it's simple. I told you that I don't play around. I always get what I want and you will be no different. You _will_ give me what I want."

I have suffered torture before, but this guy is extreme. I know that the torture I will face at the hands of this man, will be unlike any torture I have ever experienced before. But what this man does not know, is what the man he is looking for means to me. He does not how much pain I will endure to keep him safe. He does not know that I will gladly die to protect him. He does not know that I love him.

"So Agent Walker, yes I know your name. Are you ready for the torture to begin? I've heard of your greatness. I'm quite honored to meet the most talked about and feared agent of the CIA. I can't wait to see how well you hold up against my unforgiving torture."

He reaches behind his back. I don't know what he's going for. Is it a gun? Another knife? My heart rate kicks up a notch as I wait for the weapon to be revealed. It emerges from behind his back and catches the light. It's another knife.

Each hand now holds a sharp blade, one bloody, the other clean. He brandishes them through the dusty air of the cold metal room with an evil scowl on his face.

He approaches me, the point of the clean knife nearing my face. He places the clean blade on my uncut cheek. "Now, Agent Walker, do you want to give me the identity of the Intersect?" As he speaks, he pulls the blade down my cheek, keeping the pressure just light enough that my face was spared from obtaining another scar.

I sit there silently. I will not betray Chuck. I do not care what this man does to me. I will never trade away his safety for mine. His life is far more valuable than mine and not just because he is the Intersect. His life is more important than mine because of the feelings I have for him.

The knife's blade still rests on my face and when I do not answer it digs into my soft flesh. This cut is deeper than the one on the other side of my face. It produces more blood and causes more pain. I can't completely hide my agony this time and I squeeze my eyes tightly shut.

"Let's try this again shall we? Who is the Intersect?"

My silence fills the room. I will not give Chuck up. This Mr. Ralph Marks will just have to keep up his torture routine because I won't sell out that curly brown head or those warm cocoa eyes.

My sealed lips anger him and his eyes burn with fury. He raises the two blades and in one swift movement, slices both of my arms. Blood now exudes from the future scars that have been created on my upper arms.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and leans in. His face is seething with barely contained anger. "One last time. Tell me the identity of the Intersect!"

I feel his hot breath on my face and it disgusts me. For the first time since he entered the room, I speak. "Get your disgusting foul breath out of my face!"

I know it's not a smart move, but I can't help it. This horrid man is cutting me open little by little. It was testing the limits of my control. When he got in my face, I couldn't take it any longer and I lost it.

When I see his face after he puts distance between us, I see that his anger has grown exponentially. He clutches the top of the handle of the knife in his right hand and slams it into my temple.

My head screams in pain. The bruise and the little cut resulting from being hit by the hard metal of a belt buckle are still fresh. The intense pain caused by the force of the blow against my recently injured temple, causes me to react violently. I thrash around in my chair, but it's no use. I'm not going anywhere. I settle down and the racket of the chair knocking against the floor ceases. The room is quiet again.

"I want a name this time. What is the name of the human Intersect?!"

His strong hands squeeze my arms. More blood is released from my fresh cuts. It hurts and I'm barely able to contain my scream. I keep my eyes tightly closed and I grit my teeth with as much force as I can muster. He grips my arms tighter and my mouth can no longer remain shut. I give him what he wants. I softly speak a name. "Bryce Larkin."

He releases me and I think my plan has worked. But then I see his face and I see the anger written in his eyes. He doesn't believe me, but I continue on the same path anyway, hoping to convince him that what I say is true. Or at least that I believe it to be true.

The pain in my arms lessens and I scream at him. "Bryce Larkin was the only Intersect and your men killed him! You killed the Intersect!" Real anger over and emotion regarding Bryce's recent death seeps out and I add, "You killed my friend!"

He still doesn't believe my words and he flies into a fit of rage. "Agent Walker, I hate liars! Now you will really feel my wrath!"

I become like the Thanksgiving turkey as he carves me up. Both blades furiously dance through the air and cut into my skin. My entire body screams with pain as I'm unrelentingly cut open all over. I cannot contain it any longer and my mouth lets out an earth-shattering scream of pain. With every cut, my screams grow louder. Silently, I start begging for the sweet release of death.

Death doesn't come and he finally stops. But my pain-filled screams do not. Every inch of my body feels like it's on fire. No bit of exposed flesh was spared. I've become a mass of bloody gashes.

My new dress was cut up in the wild attack too. Blood seeps through the fabric of the ruined garment. Every blood soaked section showing where the knives have cut through my skin.

I continue to scream in agony. Every part of my body is throbbing. My pain distracts me and I lose track of the man who is intent on making me betray Chuck.

He reappears in my line of sight and I see that he is no longer carrying the knives. I see them lying on the table behind him. In his hand, he now holds a long leather whip.

He rears back and throws his arms out. The leather of the whip snaps against my thigh. My leg is sent an intense stinging pain. I cry out in anguish. At that precise moment, my assailant speaks. I'm barely able to hear what he says. "I want that name!"

He swings the whip again. My arm now feels the same intense stinging pain as my leg. "Give me that name!"

When I still do not utter a sound, save for the expression of my pain, he launches into a rapid succession of attacks against my already severely battered body. Every other second, the whip violently snaps against a different part of my skin. Each snap of the whip adds another bruise to my body.

I wish for death. My suffering is too great. Agony and anguish have fused themselves to every single cell of my body. The pain has soaked through my skin. My muscles and even the depths of my bones ache with extreme pain.

Why does death not come for me? Why does my heart fight to keep beating? Why do my lungs insist on forcing my breath out? Why am I still alive?!

The whip continues to crack against my flesh. "Agent Walker. Identify the Intersect and I will stop. You won't have to suffer anymore. Is withholding this information from me really worth all of this pain, this never-ending torture?"

My scream has become constant. My pain is severe. I almost miss the question that has just been asked of me. Is Chuck's well-being worth all of my suffering? There is no doubt in my mind. He most certainly is.

I force my mouth to say the word that fills my throat. "YES!"

My answer causes him to fly into a fit of uncontrolled rage. He slings the whip, releasing it from his hand. It soars through the air and smacks into the wall. As his hand flies back, it connects with my cheek. The cuts on my face catch fire upon impact.

He storms past me. His heavy boots crashing into the metal floor. He disappears behind me. I hear him making noise and I think he picks something up.

A moment later the back of the wooden chair breaks as it is hit with something. The object continues on its path and when connects with my back, I hear the telltale signs of bones cracking. I let out the loudest scream as I have throughout the entire torture process.

With the back of the chair now broken, I fall face forward and my cheek slams against the hard metal of the floor. My legs swing out from under me, still bound to the bottom of the broken chair.

As I lay there with agony burning through me, I begin to hear echos in the distance. The sound grows louder as they come closer to where I'm being held. Whether they're friend or foe, I do not know.

As they near, I can hear voices shouting. I try to listen to what they say, but I can't make out the words. Then I recognize a voice. Casey. My partner has come to rescue me. I just hope it's not too late.

The words become clear as they come closer and now there is no mistaking who has stormed the building. When my torturer realizes the cavalry has arrived, he quickly snatches up one of the bloody knives from the table.

He rushes over to me. Grabbing my hair, he yanks my head up. The blade of the knife is pressed against my neck and he lacerates my throat. I don't feel the pain for but a second, because I black out.

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**_A/N: If you stuck it out until the end, thank you. I hope you enjoyed it. Look for Chapter 2 soon._**


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: If you read Chapter 1, thank you. If you have come back for Chapter 2, again thank you.**_

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My eyes slowly open. Everything is fuzzy. My senses are all fogged up. The fog is thick and I wonder where I am. What happened?

The fogginess of my senses fades slightly and the first thing that registers with me is a sound. I can hear a steady electronic beeping. I strain my ears to listen more, but they pick up nothing else.

The fog clears a little more and I'm able to detect the scent of ammonia. The smell rushes me, and fills my nose. The scent is too strong. It buries any other smells that may be present.

I now know where I am. I'm in a hospital somewhere. But why? What happened to me?

As I become more aware of myself, my whole body starts to ache. Memories of the brutal torturing I suffered flood my mind. I can't really remember any of the details at the moment. I just know that it was really bad.

Again, I come to the realization that I'm in a hospital. That's when it hits me. Somehow, I have survived my torturing. At least, I've survived for now. That may not be true in the near future. I have no idea what condition I'm in. Maybe lying in this hospital bed is just prolonging the inevitable. Maybe I'm dying. My life may soon have run its course.

As the fog around me continues to lift, the intensity of my pain increases tenfold. My skin burns. My back screams. My throat throbs. There isn't the tiniest bit of my body that does not feel the most intense pain I've ever felt in my life.

The fuzziness in my eyes is washed away and my vision becomes clear. I see the dull, drab, colorless, room in which I've been placed. My eyes travel around the room as I take in my surroundings.

I see a lot of machinery around me. There's a machine monitoring my heart rate and a machine that measures my blood pressure. I'm hooked up to a tube of oxygen. There is an IV in my arm. And then I see the most beautiful sight. A morphine drip.

I look around, careful not to jostle my body too much. I look for the button that will give me the extra boost of the morphine I so desperately need right now. My eyes search everywhere until I finally spot it.

I reach out for it. But my fingertips just barely miss it. If I could just extend my reach by two inches, I could get it. I stretch my arm out to the length of my full capacity. I'm able to get a little closer, but not enough. I'm only able to extend my reach by a few centimeters. I'll have to gain another inch-and-a-half if I want that button. And I do want that button. No. I _need_ that button. I _must_ have that button.

I look around for anything that may extend my reach, but I find nothing. I lay there staring at the ceiling tiles feeling defeated. My growing pain just mocks my lack of success.

I can't give up. I must come up with a way to get that button, so that I may have some relief from this unbearable pain. I can't last much longer without it.

I feel the stiff pillow under my head. Slowly, I move my arm toward it as I raise my head. Taking it out from under my head, I hold it over the side of my hospital bed. It remains parallel to the floor as it hangs in the air. I move it toward the button that will release extra morphine into my system. After a bit of a struggle, I'm able to get the button to lay atop the pillow.

As badly as I want the sweet relief it will give me, I don't make quick work of moving it toward me. I very slowly bring the pillow closer to me, keeping cool, calm and patient. I don't want to lose it after getting this far.

After a couple of minutes, I'm able to take the button in my hand. When I grasp it, I forget about the pillow and it drops to the floor. But I don't care. What matters is that I now have my button. I press it twice and I feel a decrease in the intensity of my pain. Finally, I'm able to relax a bit.

Now that I'm not so focused on pain, I can assess the situation a little better. I've already seen all the machinery, so now I look to see what else is contained in my room. Off to the side of the bed sits a chair, but no one is in it. I also notice the distinct lack of flowers or balloons. There isn't even a card. Has no one visited me? Have I been forgotten? Does anyone even know where I am?

I try to forget the lack of get well wishes I've received and continue to look around the room. On the side of the room opposite of where the chair sits, I see a window. I look out to see what kind of view I have. It's beautiful. Very beautiful.

The view outside my window is a stark contrast to my lonely room in this hospital. It's the only sign of beauty I have to look upon. The only sign of life I can see, is the nature scene outside my window. It's only out there that my eyes can find any color. The view will have to be what keeps me from becoming too depressed while I lie in this room.

Now that I've taken note of my surroundings, I begin to assess my condition. How bad a shape am I in?

Most of my body is covered by blue hospital blankets. Only my head and arms are uncovered. I grab the top of the blanket to uncover myself and I notice my arm for the first time. It's covered in white bandages. Both of my arms are. How did I not notice before? I guess that just shows how much pain I was in if I didn't notice that until now.

I toss the blanket aside and I see that my legs too are covered in white bandages. Through my thin hospital gown, I can also see evidence of bandages underneath. There are so many!

As I become aware of their presence, I begin to feel every point of contact they have with my skin. I can feel them on my face as well. And I feel a large one covering my neck. I'm covered head to toe in bandages!

I lie there looking at all the bandages that surround me and I start to remember some of the details of that night. I remember my torturer's fondness for knives. How he loved to cut into my skin and see me bleed.

The nightmare replays in my head and I want it to end. I don't want to relive it. It's too horrific. But my brain doesn't have a stop button and the scene continues to play out in my mind.

When I feel that I can't take one more vision of my body being carved open, the door to my room opens and a nurse walks through. It disrupts the play of my memories and I send an internal thank you her way.

She's really pretty. I pull the blankets up over myself to hide all the bandages that litter my body. Even though she already knows that they're there. She has eyes. And there is no way anyone wouldn't notice them. Most of my skin is hidden underneath them. But still, I feel better wrapped up beneath the sheets.

She's a little shorter than I, about 5' 6" I would say and just a couple of years older than I am. Her wavy blonde hair is beautiful. I notice her eyes and the color of them remind me of Chuck's eyes. They're almost the exact same color.

"Agent Walker, it's so good to see that you're finally awake!"

Finally awake? How long have I been here? And did she just call me Agent Walker? Or did she say Miss Walker and my mind is just playing tricks on me? Oh, how my head hurts!

"Agent Walker. I'm your nurse. My name is Carolyn Ray. You're in a special CIA hospital." So, I guess she did say Agent Walker. "You were brutally tortured two-and-and-half weeks ago." I've been here for nearly three weeks!? "Do you remember that? If you do, I want you to hold up one finger. If you don't remember that, I want you to hold up two fingers for me"

Hold up my fingers? Why did she ask me to do that? Well, okay, if that's what she wants. I guess I'll do it her way. Even though I don't understand it. I slowly raise my left hand and hold up one finger.

"Good."

She checks all the equipment I'm hooked up to. She makes sure that everything is as it should be. Before she walks back out of the room, she tells me that my doctor will be in to see me soon. She adds that he has some very important things he needs to talk to me about.

I don't have to wait long. A few minutes later, a man whom I assume to be my doctor walks into the room. He pulls the chair close to my bed and sits down. Next, he takes a pair of glasses out of his coat pocket and slips them onto his face. He then opens the folder he was carrying. He also has a notebook with a matching pen. He sets the notebook and pen down on top of some nearby medical equipment. I wonder what the notebook is for?

I can tell he's not really reading whatever is written on those papers. I can tell by the way he is just staring at one spot. Whatever they say about me and the state of my condition, he already knows. He's nervous. He's just preparing for whatever it is that he has to tell me. Maybe he doesn't know how to say it.

A full minute goes by before he closes the folder and sets it aside. "First things first, I'm Dr. Russell Holland. Now Agent Walker, I have some things I need to discuss with you. Your body suffered severe trauma during your torture. Had your partner shown up even a minute later, or had he not brought a fully equipped medical chopper with him, you'd be dead right now. You received a number of knife wounds all over your body. You couldn't afford the loss of very much more blood. You are very lucky he stopped attacking you with the knives when he did."

As he talks about the cuts that cover my skin, my nightmare night of torture begins again. I see my torturer's face. I feel the knives as they slice through my flesh. I feel the sharp pain after every cut. I feel the blood that covers me.

"In addition to all of your knife wounds, you also received significant bruising on your arms, legs and neck, particularly on your right side. That is relatively minor compared to your other injuries, but you'll be pretty sore for a while."

I remember the leather whip and the feeling on my skin every time the whip snapped against me. My body burns as the whip snaps across my fresh, open wounds. The heat is intense and I feel like I'm on fire.

"At some point during the torture, your back was struck. We believe it to have been either a metal rod of some kind or a metal bat. He hit you pretty hard. The lower portion of your spine was broken and your spinal cord suffered significant damage."

I remember the bat. I remember the unbelievably intense pain I felt as my bones snapped. I know what the doctor is about to tell me. He's going to tell me that I'll never walk again.

"Agent Walker, I'm sorry, but you will never be able to walk again. We'll have a wheelchair here for you soon. Again, I'm so sorry."

I knew what he was going to say. I had been prepared for it. Or at least I thought I was. But then why do I find water leaking from my eyes? I'm crying. The realization of what it really meant didn't hit me until he said the words out loud. My back is broken and I won't ever walk again. I can't even stand up on my own legs anymore.

Dr. Holland looks away, but remains in the chair by the bed as I take a few minutes to cry. The fact that he is still sitting there tells me that he has more to say to me. I need to stop my tears. I need to stop so that he can finish telling me all the things that he needs to tell me about what has happened to me.

When it seems that my tears have dried up, the doctor continues his conversation. "Agent Walker, there is something else that I have to tell you. There was a bilateral disruption of your recurrent laryngeal nerve. I'm afraid you've developed Aphonia."

The medical talk confuses me. I've never heard the term. The only thing I know is that it has something to do with my throat. I'm just going to have to ask Dr. Holland what that means. I open my mouth to speak, trying my best to ignore the powerful burning caused by the laceration on my neck. What is Aphonia? I say. I know I said it, but no sound came out. What is going on?!

Dr. Holland elaborates on what he just said. "Aphonia, is the inability to speak."

Did he hear my question? His words seem to indicate that he did. No wait. He just told me that Aphonia was the inability to speak. There is no way heard my question, because I didn't really say anything.

"I'm very sorry. You seem like a really nice young woman. I'm really sorry that all this had to happen to you." I see the sympathy expressed in his bold green eyes and I know that he means what he says. He truly is sorry.

He picks up the notebook and the pen he set aside earlier and hands them to me. "This is for you. If you have any questions or if you just want to write something down, you can. No one will read anything you write in there unless you want them to."

The unexpected discovery of my inability to speak, hits me hard. It's much harder to accept than my inability to walk. That I could learn to deal with. But Aphonia, how could I possibly learn to deal with that?! I guess I'll find out though, because I don't really have a choice.

I only just stopped crying a moment ago, but the water inside has once again found the path that leads out of my eyes. Tears leak from the outer corners and roll into my already damp hair. They flow slowly at first, but soon my eyes become a waterfall.

Out of the corner of one water-soaked eye, I barely notice Dr. Holland stand up and walk through the door that leads out of my room. He's giving me some time alone to let me take in all that he has told me.

I continue to cry, but then I think about the reason I went through all this. I did it for Chuck. I ask myself, is having most of my skin overrun by scars worth it for Chuck? Yes. Is my broken back worth it for Chuck? Yes. What about my inability to ever speak another word, is that worth it for Chuck? Yes.

Now there is only one more question I must ask myself. Is the combination of all three things worth it for Chuck? My brain considers the question for a moment, but my heart already knows the answer. Yes. All of it is worth it for him.

Whenever my condition threatens to tear me down, I will remember that I invited all this suffering upon myself to protect Chuck and I'll be okay. As long as I hold on to that fact, neither my scars, my broken back, nor the loss of my voice will ever be able to break me.

Every scar that mars my body will serve to remind me of the protection I provided for him. Every time I take myself somewhere in the wheelchair which will replace my legs as my mode of transportation, I will be reminded of Chuck's freedom. And when I cannot speak..., well I don't know what that will remind me of, but I will know that I gave my voice up so that he could keep his.

For a few hours, I'm all alone in my room. Lying around in this depressing hospital room doing nothing bores me. I can't stand the inactivity. It has become dark now, so I can't even look out the window. I've lost my view to the outside world. I need something to look at, someone to talk to, anything to take my boredom away.

I start drawing on the blue blanket laid across my bed with my finger. It is at that time that a woman with long auburn hair enters. Great, I think. How many more of these therapists do they have to send in here before they realize that I don't want to talk to them, that I can't talk to them. For one, it's too soon. The memories are too vivid. For another, I've lost my voice.

"Good evening, Agent Walker. My name is Brandi Thomas. Dr. Holland thought you might be interested in learning a bit of sign language. If you are, I could teach you."

She's not a therapist and I am really bored, so I agree. I figure that it will keep me busy for a while and learning a few words can't hurt.

She starts with the alphabet, showing me a few letters at a time. Once I get that down, she starts teaching me a few words. I thought it would just be a way for me to kill time, but I find myself really enjoying it. It also keeps my mind away from the painful memories that haunt me and relaxes me.

After an hour long lesson, she says that she has to go. I signal for her to hold on for a moment. I pick up the notebook and the pen that have been lying on the bed, untouched since they were given to me. I open the notebook and write something down. When I finish, I show it to her. She reads my message and agrees to come back every day for an hour to teach me more.

That night as I drift off to sleep, I see the wicked grin of Ralph Marks as he comes at me with a bloody knife. I wake up in a cold sweat. It scares me and I jerk my body. The pain I feel is horrible and I try to scream, but of course no sound comes out.

I seem to have set off some sort of panic button or something, because shortly thereafter, a nurse rushes into the room. She asks me if I'm okay, and when I calm down she asks me if I'd like to talk to a counselor.

I've started to think that it might not be such a bad idea to talk to someone about what I went through. That night was by far the worst experience of my life. It might be helpful to talk to someone.

It's the first thing in the morning when he comes to talk to me. I leave out the details about the Intersect and Chuck in the responses I write using the notebook I was given. I only write about the things that happened to me while I was locked in that room, the knife attacks, being beaten with a whip, having my back cracked by the cold metal of a baseball bat and everything else.

Like with Brandi, who has started teaching me some sign language, the therapist visits me every day for an hour. I've found that talking about it, or rather writing about it, does help. Each night my nightmares become less severe.

Two weeks after waking up in the hospital, I have my first visitor. Though the visitor is someone I could do without. General Beckman.

Okay, so she's not the most desirable visitor I could have, but maybe I can find out what's happened with Chuck. That would make the General's visit more bearable and worthwhile.

I quickly grab my notebook and pen. I find and a blank page and I write, _What is happening with the Intersect project?_

I guess Beckman takes pity on me because she answers my question. "The project is running smoothly. Less than 24 hours after your capture, we had a new agent assigned to the program to replace you."

I quickly make a few scribbles with my pen below my first message, _who?_

"Agent Spicer."

I recognize the name. Agent Donna Spicer is gorgeous. Her tall, learn frame, her hazel eyes and her fiery red hair is enough to make any man turn into a drool machine. Men would trip all over themselves just to please her.

I can't help but be immensely jealous of my replacement, especially given my new unattractive appearance. Chuck will see me, and he will see her. And he will know that she is far more beautiful than I.

I push my replacement to the back of my mind, because I need to see Chuck. I need to talk to him. Even if I have lost any beauty that I once had. In my notebook I write, _When can I see Colonel Casey and Chuck? _

When Beckman reads my latest message, her face turns hard. "You can't. Colonel Casey and the asset are now off limits to you. You are to never have contact with them again."

She thanks me for me dedicated service to the CIA and tells me that my duties with the government are officially over and that I'm free to live my own life. Well, the General doesn't understand. Without Chuck, I have no life. I wait until she leaves the room and disappears from sight, before I let the tears fall from my eyes.

How could she just take Chuck from me like that?! After all the torture I've been through, she just adds to it?! Haven't I suffered enough?!

Losing Chuck is a torture far greater and more debilitating than what I suffered at the hands of Ralph Marks. Beckman hurt me much more than Ralph could ever dream. He would be envious of what she has achieved.

That night, I get no sleep. I cry through the night and into the morning. My life has become meaningless. Without Chuck in my life, I have no reason to live. Now, even more than during the extremes of my torture, I wish for my death.

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_**A/N: If you stuck it out to the end of this chapter, thank you. Hopefully, you haven't come to hate me and my story and will return for Chapter 3.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: If you are still reading this after the first two chapters, here is Chapter 3.**

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After three months, I'm finally released from the hospital. My cuts have healed and become red scars that rise above the surface of my skin. My pain still exists, but instead of a powerful burning sensation, it has been down graded into a dull ache. Of course my back is still broken and my voice is still gone. Those have become permanent fixtures in my life that I will just have to learn how to accept.

Another thing that I have to learn to accept is that I'll never see Chuck again. It rips my heart into a million pieces. It extinguishes the light in my soul. I have to find somewhere new to live. I have only been given 48 hours to leave California and Chuck behind forever. I decide that if I have to leave, I'm getting as far away from here as possible.

I say goodbye to the west coast and hello to the east coast. But I don't care where I end up. It doesn't matter. As long as it isn't a big city. That would just remind me of what I had to leave behind. I don't need to live somewhere that would only serve to be a constant painful reminder of the man and the memories that had been taken from me. My life is going to be painful enough without being reminded of what I've lost every moment of every day.

I find a little town. It's not too small, but it's not too big either. With the last bit of help I'll ever receive from the government, I'm able to find a nice two bedroom house.

After a bit of remodeling and adding in a few modifications courtesy of the CIA, I'm able to get out of the hotel I've been staying in and finally move into my house. It didn't take long at all to get my house ready for me to live in, but I couldn't stand staying in a hotel. It brought up too many painful memories of the life I had to leave behind, the very thing I was trying to avoid by moving way out here.

My new home is made of brick and is only a single story of course, due to my need to use a wheelchair. All the cabinets have been moved down low so that I can reach them from a seated position. My bed is a little closer to the floor so that I can move from my chair to the bed and from my bed the chair with fewer difficulties. I have a text phone, so that I can type out what I want to say when someone calls. The list goes on and on. But the point is, I can take care of myself in my own home. Despite my newfound disabilities, I can be independent.

I find things difficult at first. Adjusting to not being able to walk or stand is proving to be harder than I thought it would be. I just can't get used to it. I have fallen to the floor on a number of occasions. I forget that I can't support myself and I try to stand to reach for something and I fall. Other times I slip and tumble to the floor when I try to transfer from my chair to another location. I'm having a lot of trouble mastering moving from my chair and back again without the use of my legs. It has been a real challenge for me.

Falling isn't the only problem I have been having trying to adjust to being in a wheelchair. Doing everything sitting down just feels so awkward to me. When I prepare my meals, I sit. When I wash the dishes, I sit. When I vacuum, sweep or mop, I sit. I have found that some things are not just awkward, but also are quite difficult to do when you are required to do them from a seated position.

As time goes by, my ability to get in and out of my chair greatly improves. The passage of time also makes it easier and less awkward to do various things from my chair. Everything begins to feel more natural as I work on adjusting to being disabled. Since I don't have anything else to do, much of my day is spent practicing with my chair. The practice definitely helps. Each passing day, I start becoming more and more comfortable with my wheelchair.

Because I live alone and have no friends or family to speak of, I often forget about my other disability, the one that prevents me from speaking. Aphonia. So whenever I rediscover that particular disability, it is just as hard to accept as the first time I learned of my Aphonia. I haven't gotten any better at dealing with my inability to talk. Every time I forget and try to speak only to find that no sound makes its way out, my face becomes wet as I shed a few tears.

I'm having a very hard time with that one. I don't know if I'll ever learn to adjust to the loss of my voice. Suddenly losing the ability to do something I've been doing practically since birth is very unsettling. I know that because I live alone, I don't really need to speak, but I still miss my voice.

While working on adjusting to my new life I stay inside the house. I don't even go out onto the porch. I don't open any of the doors of my new home until almost two weeks after I move in. I need to pick up some more groceries. My food supply is running low.

The grocery store isn't too far from where I live, so I can just travel there in my chair. I roll out my front door, down the ramp on my porch and start making my way toward the supermarket.

I don't make it very far when I encounter one of my new neighbors. Upon seeing my badly scarred body, he abruptly turns his head and quickly walks in the other direction.

Watching the way that man reacted to me, cuts me like a knife. I have already been cut by more than enough knives. I don't need to be cut again.

The pain I feel in my heart is overwhelming. I feel the water building up under my eyes. I'm going to cry. I know it. I can't stop the tears from coming. The rush is too strong. But I can't let anyone see me cry. Sarah Walker, even a disfigured and disabled one, never lets anyone see her cry, if she can help it.

I maneuver my wheelchair until I'm facing home again. As quickly as I am able, I wheel myself toward my house. My arms are hurting from the speed at which I'm rotating the wheels of my chair, but I don't slow down. I will not let the fragility of my emotional state show.

I get back to my house in less than half the time it took me to get out there. When I get through the front door, I slam it shut. The lock on my tear ducts is broken and the watery build up is released.

The tears run freely down my cheeks and fall off my face. I'm not going out there again. I can't take another reaction like that. The wound inflicted on my self-esteem needs time to heal. I know I wouldn't be able to survive another attack right now. I will just do without food this week. I have some cereal left. I'll just eat that.

When the following week arrives, I'm ready to try my trip to the grocery store again. Since hurrying home after one of my neighbors reacted to me the way he did, I've kept myself locked up in my house with all of the curtains drawn. I didn't want to take the chance that someone else in the neighborhood would see me and be disgusted by my hideousness. But my food supply has run completely dry. I don't have a choice anymore. I have to go out. I have to get food.

Everyone who sees me as I wheel myself toward my destination adverts their eyes and picks up speed until I'm no longer in their line of sight. Inside the store, people can't seem to get away from me fast enough. Every time I enter an aisle, the other shoppers take their carts and clear out.

My self-esteem crumbles with each new person who flees my presence. By the time I finally finish my shopping, it has completely fallen away.

I go home and cry again. I vow then and there that I will not leave my house anymore unless I absolutely have to. I can't take the avoidance. If they were to stare at me that would be easier to take. But the pain of watching everyone run from me is unbearable.

I lead a very lonely life now. My door is always locked. My curtains are always drawn. I rarely have any contact with the outside world. To avoid the treatment I get out there, I've become a recluse.

I have become the town freak. People are always whispering about me. I've long since lost count how many crazy theories have been cooked up regarding whom I am, where I come from and what happened to me. Why I look the way I do. None of them are even remotely correct.

Because I live locked up in my house, I haven't talked to a therapist since moving out here more than month ago and the intensity of my nightmares keeps increasing. I have started avoiding sleep as much as I can to try to keep the terrifying visions away. It worked, but only briefly. Now they have started attacking during the day as well. I can't hide from them any longer.

With the reclusive life I lead, I haven't run some of the errands that I need to. I took my last pain pill two days ago. My entire body is racked with pain. Even sitting is painful. So I lie in my bed most of the day. Even that hurts, but not as much. It's nearing evening now and I'm still in bed. I have been staring at the ceiling all day.

I no longer have anything that resembles a life. I hide from the world and lie in the bed as I suffer with my pain. This is no way to live, no way at all.

As much as I'm dreading it, I'm going to have to go out tomorrow. I need to refill my prescription and I need to find a therapist to talk to. If I keep going on like this, my life will soon become completely miserable. I'm almost there now. There is not a day that goes by that I don't wish I had died on the night of my torture.

Ever since that horrific night, my torture has been never-ending. Only instead of my suffering being physical, it has become psychological. It has become emotional. I am tortured by the actions and reactions of those around me. I am tortured by my forced separation of from Chuck. My lonely life is nothing but a string of continuous torture.

I find myself crying all the time now. I've cried more in the months since I was brutally tortured than I have in my whole life. It's a fact that only serves to depress me more. I just wish my suffering would end, whether it be through death or by some other means. It doesn't matter to me how, just as long as it ends.

That night I don't sleep. I'm too nervous about leaving my house tomorrow. What is wrong with me?! The woman who would race into a hail of gunfire without a second thought is now afraid to even go out her front door?!

What happened to that woman? She died. That's what. Ralph Marks, General Diane Beckman and the entire world killed her. She couldn't survive their unique brand of torture.

After a long agonizing night, morning comes and I'm still staring at the ceiling in my bedroom. My eyes didn't shut all night. Today is going to be a very long day.

As I push myself up into a seated position on the bed, my body screams at me. I internally yell at it to shut up, as I carefully move from the bed to my wheelchair. I take my time getting ready. Even though my body is in a lot of pain, I'm not in a hurry to leave home.

I'm ready to go now, but I still haven't left the house. I've been sitting in front of the door for five minutes now. I don't want to open it and face the world. I am so pathetic. It takes another two minutes of staring at the closed door before I finally turn the doorknob and pull the door open.

I encounter a lot of difficulty in trying to reach my destination. The pharmacy is too far away for me to travel there with my wheelchair and I can't drive. I guess I'll have to take the bus.

By the time I wheel myself down to the nearest bus stop, my arms are worn out. When the bus arrives I can't get on due to the stairs. The bus won't stay here long. I need to think of something fast.

I pull out my notebook and quickly scribble a message that explains my situation. I hold the notebook out and show it to the man driving. I have things that I really need to do today so hope that he'll help me.

As I wait to find out if the bus driver will help me, I hold my breath. I guess he takes pity on me, because he lifts me from my chair and carries me onto the bus. He then goes back to retrieve my chair.

I found it very uncomfortable being lifted and carried by some man I didn't know, but it was the only way I could get on the bus. Taking the bus is the only way I'll be able to get where I need to go, because I don't have any friends here that could help me out.

My trip is an unpleasant one. There aren't many other passengers on the bus, but none of them will look at me. My extensively scarred body scares them.

The bus driver won't look at me either. I could tell he didn't like having to help me onto the bus and I know that he isn't looking forward to the task of helping me get back off the bus.

I am relieved when I finally get off that bus and away from the emotional pain brought on by everyone's inability to look at me. I'm even more relived when I get my pain medication. I can finally quiet the screaming of my body.

After swallowing my pills, I tuck them away in my purse and I'm ready to head for my next destination. The therapist. The woman I am going to see is supposed to be the best in town. She comes highly recommended. I hope she can help me deal with my nightmarish experience with torture. I just can't do it on my own.

I sit in her office for several minutes before I hear the doorknob start to turn. The door swings open and the doctor just stands in the open doorway staring at me. Her new patient. Her disfigured patient.

I start to think that maybe I've made a mistake in coming here. If she can't even enter a room I'm in and can only stare at my appearance, then she will be of no help to me.

I place my hands on the wheels of my chair. I'm just going to get out of here. Before I can make it anywhere however, she recovers from the shock of seeing my disfigurement and walks into the room, shutting the door behind her.

"I'm so sorry Miss. Walker. Can you please forgive me?"

I nod my head and she takes a seat. "So what would you like to talk to me about Miss. Walker?"

I pull out my notebook and begin writing. I start off by explaining my inability to speak so that she will know why I'm using a notebook rather than talking to her. I then move on to the reason of my visit, the extreme torture I suffered.

When my session is over, I'm feeling a little better. It took her a while to get comfortable around me, but once she did, Dr. Knowles turned out to be a great therapist for me to talk to about what I've been through. I'll be coming back.

I have two scheduled appointments a week and on my next visit, she suggests that I try to get out more. She tells me to do my best to forget about the way other people react when they see me and to not let my scars or my disabilities run my life.

I decide to take her advice. When I get home the first thing I do is open all the curtains. I can finally see the sun again. The gloomy darkness that filled my house for so long is finally lifted as the sun's rays filter in through the windows. My house is instantly warmer and more cheerful. My mood is brightened a little as my house starts to feel more like a home.

The sunlight filling my house has me feeling better and that evening I decide to go out to eat at a nearby restaurant. I haven't been out to eat in more than four months now.

The other diners avoid me and the waiters try to look my way as little as possible. It hurts, but I try my best to not let it bother me much beyond that. I'm not going to be forced out of this restaurant. I'm hungry and I deserve some good food.

A few months pass and people become used to my appearance. I started leaving my house more and people have finally begun to stop avoiding me like the plague. People will say hello to me when they see me now, but I still don't really have any friends. Not much else has changed. My life is still depressing as my loneliness continues.

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**A/N: Sarah has been suffering a lot hasn't she? There has to be some light at the end of this long, dark tunnel, right? Find out in Chapter 4.**


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: If you stuck around for the first 3 chapters, here's where the story finally gets less depressing.**_

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I'm sitting on my couch in the living room when I hear the doorbell. It surprises me. I rarely have any visitors and I'm not expecting anyone.

Curious to see who the unexpected arrival is, I pull my chair over and gently slide in. It takes several minutes before I'm able to complete the transition from the couch to my chair and the ringing has grown persistent. I want to yell at them to stop ringing the doorbell, but of course my lack of voice prevents me from doing that. Don't people understand that a paralyzed woman in a wheelchair might need some time to get to her door?!

Once I'm comfortably settled, I wheel myself over to the door to finally put a stop to the annoying ringing.

When I get the door open, I'm surprised by what I see. It has been six years, but I still recognize that curly brown head of hair and those warm cocoa eyes that can melt my heart.

I must not be what he was expecting, because he seems to be shocked. When his face freezes, his eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open. The rose he was holding abruptly falls to the ground by his feet. He doesn't even notice. He just stands there unmoving.

He stares at my scars, red and glaringly visible, they rise above the surface of my skin giving it an unpleasant and rough look and feel. He stares intently at each and every scar marring my body that is not hidden by my clothing.

His eyes drift down to my wheelchair as he continues to stare wide-eyed with shock at the sight before him. He fixates his eyes on my hands as they rest on the wheels of my chair. After what feels like hours, his eyes dart around every inch of my wheelchair before finally settling on my now useless legs. The way he is staring at them it is like he is trying to will them to work using the power of his mind. But no power or force in the universe will ever allow me to walk again. I'll always be in this wheelchair.

Several moments later, he refocuses on my scars again. This time he concentrates on studying the ones that cover my face. He is putting a lot of energy into examining the cicatrices on my face. Is he trying to count them? If he is, it will be a difficult task. I don't even know how many scars deface my countenance.

As he stares at me, my self-consciousness rises. What does he think of the new me? The one who is now confined to a wheelchair. The one whose body has been overtaken by nasty scars. The one who cannot speak. Wait. He doesn't know about that last one yet. But when he does find out, what will he think of it?

Has my appeal vanished from his eyes, just like any semblance of beauty has from my skin? Is he disgusted by my appearance? Will he run away from the unfamiliar woman sees?

I watch him turn his head away. He can't look at me any longer. The action sends a knife spiraling straight into my heart. All of its blood pours out and I die inside.

Quiet tears fall from my eyes as I look at the back of Chuck's head. All of my dreams have been shattered. If he had stayed away, I could at least pretend that wherever he was, he still cared for me. But now that he is here at my door and won't look at me, I can't hold onto that dream anymore. It's over.

Minutes go by and I just want to shut the door and forget about him standing there. But I can't. I know that I won't be able to shut the door until he walks out of sight. So I sit and wait.

He makes a move, but instead of walking away, he surprises me by turning to face me again. When he does, I see the glisten in his eyes. He has been crying. Is it so painful to look upon me now that he was reduced to tears?

I can tell that he is going to say something and my heart stops in fear. The brief moment of silence feels like it goes on forever. What is he going to say to me?

"Oh my God Sarah! What happened?!" When I give him no answer, he kneels on the ground bringing himself to my eye level. "Sarah, what happened to you?! Please tell me."

Maybe he does still care about me. I turn around in my chair and reach into the pocket that was attached to the back. After I take out my notebook, I turn to face Chuck once again. I then pull the pen out from the spiral binding and begin writing a message on a clean sheet.

I know that Chuck must be very confused by my actions. But once I explain everything, he will understand. _I was tortured six years ago._

"I know that Sarah. I'm talking about all of those scars, the fact that you're in a wheelchair and why are you writing in that notebook instead of talking to me?!"

Did no one tell him what happened to me? All these years he must have been thinking that my torture was much the same as the time we were tortured back when Cole had crossed our paths.

Well, at least he hasn't spent all that time thinking I was dead or suffering. As much as I hate that he wasn't told about me, I'm glad that he has not been mourning my death or anything.

_The torture was very intense. It was by far the worst torture I've ever been though. I barely survived it. He kept cutting me and cutting me. He beat me with a whip. He cracked my back with a metal baseball bat. _

_By the time Casey got to me, I had already suffered serious injuries. Every scar on my body is where my torturer's knives cut through me. He broke my back when he hit me with that bat, preventing me from ever being able to walk again. His brutal attacks also led to me developing Aphonia, the inability to speak._

I watch as Chuck reads my latest message and I see him start to cry. The notebook becomes like metal that has been baking in the hot sun. His hands quickly release their hold on the book and it plummets to the ground, crushing the rose he had dropped when I first opened the door.

He reaches his hand out toward my face, but at the last second he pulls back. He's afraid to touch my scarred flesh. When his hand recoils from my face, a tear flows down the cheek he refused to touch.

"How have you lived like this for _six years_, Sarah?"

I point to the ground, signaling to Chuck that I need my notebook. When he hands it back to me I write, _Because I had no choice._ _I just had to learn to deal with my disabilities. I continue to learn to deal with them every day._

Chuck asks me another question. "Why did you leave me Sarah?"

Chuck thinks I ran out on him, abandoned everything we had together! How could Beckman do that to him?! I know Casey would never do that. He may be act like he doesn't care about anything or anyone, but he does. I know he wouldn't hurt Chuck like that. He must have thought I ran out on Chuck and the team as well. He must hate me. Casey was a great partner, it hurts me to think of how he must have felt thinking I betrayed my team.

And what about poor Chuck? He must have been completely crushed when he was told I was gone. He's spent all these years thinking that I didn't care about him. That I ran off to lead a more exciting life than he could offer and that I didn't even have the decency to say goodbye.

I hate Beckman. She hurt me. She hurt Chuck. She hurt Casey. Even Ellie and Devon would have been affected by what she did by separating Chuck and me. Maybe even Morgan felt the effects as well. And if they are still together, Anna by association. Did I mention that I hate Beckman? She hurt everyone that I cared about.

_I didn't want to, but I didn't have a choice. Beckman pulled me off the Intersect project, released me from the CIA and told me that I had to leave the state and never have contact with you again. It killed me to go._

"Have you been all alone this whole time?"

_For the first year or so, I was completely all alone. No one cared to have anything to do with me. My appearance scared them. Since then I have made a few friends, but I don't see them very often. I'm still very much alone._

I could have a million friends and I would still feel empty and alone without Chuck. That's how I have been feeling every day for the past six years that he has been out of my life.

"Oh, Sarah. I'm so sorry. I hate that you had to be alone all this time. Please forgive me."

_Chuck, you have nothing to apologize for. You had no control over what happened to me. It was Beckman's orders._

Chuck has been asking me lots of questions and I know he isn't finished, but there is something I need to know. I quickly start writing something and Chuck holds back whatever he had planned to ask me next to watch me as I write something in my notebook.

_How did you find me?_

"It was part of my deal with Beckman. I would agree to cooperate and serve as the Intersect. I would even accept Donna as my new handler, but only under the condition that once my work with the government was over, she would tell me where to find you. With a little help from Casey, Beckman finally agreed."

Even though he spent six years thinking that I had left him, he still wanted to know where I was. He still came looking for me. Inside, my heart melts in my chest at the thought.

And Casey, he helped Chuck. I knew he cared. I absently wonder how close he and Chuck became over the years. Maybe I'll see him again someday too. It would be nice and I could clear up any misunderstandings regarding my disappearance.

Chuck resumes asking me questions and I continue to write the answers in my notebook. I haven't done this much writing in years. When the questions finally stop, I'm glad. My hand is cramping from all of that writing.

I return my notebook to the pocket that was sewn onto the back of my wheelchair for that very purpose, but I pull it right back out. I might need it again. I instead lean it against the right side of my chair, then I invite Chuck inside.

I don't know what kind of relationship we can have after all of these years of separation. I don't know what kind of relationship he even wants to have with me. Maybe the relationship he wanted with me when he rang the doorbell changed when I answered the door and he saw that I was quite disfigured and disabled. I hope he would at least want to be a friend to me.

Whatever relationship we end up having, I want him to be able to understand me. I want to be able to communicate with him better. I want to be able to communicate with him without making my hand cramp. I want to be able to look at his face. I want to see his soft brown eyes when I communicate with him.

Chuck picks up the flattened rose and hands it to me. The damaged rose reminds me of myself. "Here, this is for you. I'm sorry it's squashed."

See, I knew I might need my notebook again. I reach by my side and pick it back up. Then I find a blank area where I can write. The squashed rose dances through the air as I hold it in the hand that also holds my pen._ I don't care that it's damaged. I think it's beautiful. Thank you._

Chuck looks at the rose in my hand and agrees. "Yes, it is."

I hope one day like the rose, Chuck can look past all of my damage and find me beautiful. For now though, I can tell he is still in shock over seeing what happened to me that horrible night six years ago.

I signal for Chuck to go over to my couch and sit down. Once I see that he has understood what I am asking him to do, I put the notebook down at my side again, just in case. I lay the rose on my lap and shut the door.

Chuck doesn't blink as he watches me use my wheelchair to make my way over to the couch where he is sitting. I can tell it's hard for him to see me like this. He is so accustomed to seeing me as the super spy who could do anything. It will take some time before my post torture reality becomes less foreign to him. I just hope he sticks around long enough to get to that point.

I pull my chair up close. Then I sit and wait. I watch Chuck's eyes and when he blinks, shaking off the shock of watching me make use of my new mode of transportation, I begin teaching him sign language.

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_**A/N: If you stuck it out all the way through, thank you. I hope you like the way this story ended.**_


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